


Altered

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abstract, Horror, Insanity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:19:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4562628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a day like any other. Like a thousand others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Altered

There’s silence. **  
**

There’s silence.

There’s a sound.

~~There’s a gasp.~~

~~There’s a prayer.~~

~~There’s a whisper.~~

There’s a scream.

There’s a name.

There’s nothing.

* * *

He jerks upright in his bed, a word on his lips one moment and gone in the next. Sighing, he slumps back and runs his hand over his face, shoving his hair out of his eyes. The house is quiet, as it always is. Outside, there’s the faint tap of rain on the window and he absently makes note to wear his waterproof boots today.

Shuffling into the kitchen, he takes his time to make coffee, then breakfast; the dreams always wake him earlier than necessary, leaving the dull ache of fatigue to sink into his very bones. He’d blame it on the place, if he could; on the routine, if he wanted; on the people, if he were so petty. But he isnt. He doesn’t. He can’t.

A day like any other, like a thousand others, he pulls on a jacket and walks to work. There, at least, the part of him that dares be so dissatisfied is satiated by the variance in the tasks to be done. Washers that need new belts, fans that need new motors, lamps that need new wiring - they’re all tasks he’s done before, but they give him some sense of peace. He mentioned it only once to his boss, receiving a distrustful look that chilled him so thoroughly he never mentioned it again.

The mirrors are harder to avoid at work though. They make it harder not to see the flashes of the man standing behind him, and they make it harder to ignore the weight of the stare. Home has no mirrors - he’d tossed or shattered the lot, bad luck and bloody knuckles be damned. There, it was too much, too frightening to keep catching glimpses of the man. It drove him crazy, crazier than the townsfolk already thought he was (although they’re too polite to say, he’s sure).

At least now he doesn’t hear the voice anymore. There’s no demands or yelling or pleading in the back of his brain from a person who doesn’t exist. It’s even been long enough that he’s forgotten the words or why the ghost of them makes his chest ache.

Shaking his head, he pushes the thoughts aside to focus on the task in front of him; no point in getting that disapproving look from his boss later when his wiring proves to be a little sloppy. Besides, all of the indoor work has to get done today - they’re calling for higher temperatures starting tomorrow, which means lawns to mow, ditches to dig, and whatever else might come their way.

The rain has let up by the time he walks home, boots squishing countless worms that have surfaced in the last few days of slow drizzle. Some folks collect them for fishing but he’s never fished that was -

He’s never fished.

His dreams that night are a dock and that stare and that man. And even though he works himself to exhaustion every day after for days upon end, the dreams still come and come and come until that voice is there again. It’s a sound just out of reach and he works hard to ignore it until he can’t anymore.

He finds himself staring intently into the only unbroken mirror over the sink in the unused bathroom downstairs. The man is there, staring back and he watches as the man’s mouth moves. There’s panic building in his chest, desperation clawing its way up his throat until he’s screaming and shoving his fist through that mirror, too.

Except the shatter is more like a shotgun blast, and suddenly there’s heat and pain and blood on his wrist. There are hands dragging him forward, grasping and pulling and tugging him closer until he’s collapsed in strong arms, weak and bloody. The voice is in his ear again, hot breath ghosting over his face.

_Sam, Sam, Sammy -_

There’s a name.

“Dean.”


End file.
